Holy Mackerel
by sparklecringe
Summary: Tifa and Barret meet. Language, violence, alcohol consumption, and exploding people.


**Holy Mackerel**

Rough night. It had been a real pisser. Barret scowled, thinking he'd never let the others put together a bomb without him ever again. It hadn't gone off when it wasn't supposed to, but Barret thought he might have preferred that to it not going off at _all. _He'd been shouting at Wedge, telling him he was 'a fucking fuck-up', and other nice things that would probably make his mother smack him upside the head, when a damn near battalion of Shinra troops had rounded the corner, running smack bang into he and Wedge with their hands in the cookie jar, you could say.

Barret had managed to escape from the Shinra scum without getting too banged up – some scratches here and there, two black eyes, and a bullet that had grazed his cheek as he was hauling ass – but it had been a close one. Too fuckin' close.

He'd staggered back through Midgar on foot, through its slimy darkness and greasy artificial lights, to Seventh Heaven, a slummy little bar in a slummy little slum. He was desperate to reach their designated rendezvous point – hadn't even stopped to tape up the cut on his face. The barmaid – he could never remember her name, Tina or Tiffany or something like that – had given him the funniest look – not exactly scared, but definitely curious.

Barret couldn't really blame her, but that didn't keep him from heading her off before she got the opportunity to start asking questions. He'd ordered a beer and almost collapsed into one of the bar stools, grateful to be able to sit down.

The others hadn't turned up yet, and that was a bad sign. Downright fuckin' terrible. Chest tight, he downed the beer in about two gulps.

He glanced up the clock. It was going on two hours.

Absently, he ordered another beer from the lady behind the bar – probably heading into 'too much' territory, but Barret never did things by half measures.

_The fuck are you guys?_

"Why do you always look surreptitiously at the door when you're here?" she asked, setting the beer down with a soft _clink_.

Barret glanced up at the barmaid, rattled out of his thoughts. She was leaning on the bar with her elbows, head in her chin and cocked so that her long dark hair spilled over her shoulder. It was a slow night. She was probably bored. Barret wished he could have the luxury of being bored.

"Don't recall makin' that your business, little lady," he said, his voice gruff, giving her his best 'step the fuck off if you know what's best for ya' scowl – an expression he'd spent years perfecting.

She raised an eyebrow at him, apparently unfazed. "You made it my business when you walked in here," she said, a little sourly.

"Your business is to serve me drinks," Barret countered, "And nothin' else. Get it?"

The raised eyebrow dropped into an out-and-out glare. "Listen, pal," she said, "It's my business to kick shifty assholes the hell out of my bar if it looks like they're gonna be inviting trouble." She shifted her gaze, very deliberately, at the wound on his cheek. Barret bristled, but made sure he held her gaze. "I also don't make it my business to take crap from guys who've got big heads to match their big muscles and think I'm oh so intimidated by them." She leaned closer to him over the bar, now leaning on her hands, her arms stretched out and straight. "_Get_ it?"

"Lady," Barret said through gritted teeth, "You wanna watch what you're sayin'. I'm not lookin' for trouble tonight-"

"_Really_? Could've fooled me," she sing-songed.

"-But don't go startin' somethin' you won't be able to finish, 'cause I won't be too shy to," he ploughed on, ignoring her interruption.

She leaned just that little bit closer. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Barret could see the fingertips of her right hand twitch, menacingly, against the bar.

"That a threat, buddy?" she asked softly.

He opened his mouth to reply.

The double saloon doors squeaked open. In the silence it was grating and far too loud. Both Barret and the barmaid turned to look at the new patron.

"Oh _fuck_," Barret said in a low voice. He locked eyes with the Shinra soldier for a single, dead silent second.

The solider only allowed himself the time to shout, "_AVALANCHE!"_ before opening fire, just as Barret scrambled up and over the bar, crouching down behind it.

"_What _the _fuck?" _the barmaid shouted, sounding more angry than frightened. Barret glanced up to see that, yes, she was outright _scowling _at the soldier, not cringing in fear like he had expected. She vaulted over the bar, an easy, graceful motion, an expression of rage burning on her face, her cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. The soldier, apparently confused and wary at this sudden challenger, stopped firing.

"This is a _private establishment,"_ she hissed, advancing towards the soldier, and Barret got to his knees so he could peek over the bar, "You can't just come in here and _start shooting shit."_

"Lady-" Barret tried to cut in, but she waved an impatient arm, silencing him.

"No," she spat, "I've had enough of men coming into my bar and being disrespectful assholes this evening. _You_," she pointed at the solider, "_Get out_."

There was a pause. Barret couldn't see his face, but he was pretty sure the soldier was dead pale. He himself was a little slack-jawed. Good thing the bar hid his face.

"Miss," the soldier said, his voice not quite authoritative enough to cover up the fact that he was obviously unnerved, "If you continue to persist you will be deemed to be aiding and abetting a known and wanted terrorist-"

Barret raised his arm, aiming to kill. Like clockwork, so did the soldier. The barmaid threw a look over her shoulder.

"Uh-uh."

"_What?_"

"I said nope. Put the arm-gun away, buddy. I got this," she sniffed, tugging on a leather glove.

The next thing Barret knew, she'd punched the Shinra soldier in the face.

He exploded.

Actually exploded.

Neatly.

"Asshole," she muttered, taking off her glove.

Barret actually had to sit down.

"_What?_" he said again, to no one in particular.

"Hm?" she said, shooting him a slightly annoyed glare.

"You just… blew that guy up," Barret said weakly.

"Yup." Like it was nothing. Like she did it every day.

What if she _did? _he thought, with a flash of horror.

While he was busy collecting himself, the barmaid leaned over the bar, fishing out a bottle of whisky. She stared at it as if contemplating for a moment, then shot an uncertain glance at Barret.

"Bottoms up," she said with a shrug, proceeding to take a swig straight from the bottle.

Barret just stared at her, speechless.

"What?" she said, her tone defensive. "I think I deserve a drink or two." She paused. "Or ten."

"…Yeah," Barret said after a beat, "Not gonna argue with that, I guess."

She knocked back another mouthful. Then another. And another. Barret was left to sit there, awkward, quiet, and a little shamefaced.

"Uh," he said, when she finally set the bottle down, "Sorry. For being a dick. Before."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You just want a shot," she remarked, shaking the bottle at him. The dark liquid swished enticingly.

Barret remained silent in a way that he hoped was either enigmatic or affronted. She smirked after a moment. "Well, you can get your own glass," she said offhandedly, bringing the bottle to her lips again.

He did. A little because he really _did _need a stiff drink. Mostly because he didn't want to meet the same fate as the Shinra soldier.

"Name's Barret Wallace," he said, holding the shot glass out for her.

"Tifa Lockheart," she replied. Barret noticed with some delight that she had poured him out a double shot. She watched him down it, her brown eyes gleaming, a wide smirk plastering itself across her face.

"So," she said, "AVALANCHE, huh?"

**END**


End file.
